The Bad Man

Last night during Anand’s visit as he lay stretched out on his side on the wicker settee, I read my story “High-Rise” to him. He was very pleased with it, also with the aliases I had chosen. I said “Bapuji isn’t really a bad man, is he?” He replied, “Oh yes, he is a very bad man. He is a criminal who spent time in jail some years ago. He has committed a murder.” And he proceeded to tell us this tale.

Fifteen years back Bapuji had an argument with a kerosene customer. This man was purchasing kerosene for a university and was getting a small kick-back but wanted more. When Bapuji refused, the buyer threatened to turn him in to the authorities. As Babuji told the story he became angry and hit the man on the head with a metal rod, whereupon he died. He dragged the body into his shop on the ground floor and with his unknowing family upstairs where they make their home, he cut up the body and put it into a bag.

Anand received a telephone call from Bapuji. “Can I borrow your Maruti. I have relatives coming and I need to fetch them.” Anand replied, “Sorry, we need it now for school business and tomorrow also I have appointments. It will not be possible.”

Bapuji then called another fellow, a friend of Anand’s. The chap agreed and arrived at the money lender’s. He was instructed by Bapuji to walk up to the local shop and buy cigarettes and tobacco, he came back with the purchase and off they went. It appeared to fellow that they were going in the wrong direction from where the relatives were meant to be arriving. “No, it’s fine. First we get petrol.” After the fill-up the car started heading toward Allahabad. The car lender again expressed concern. Bapuji said “You must be quiet and tell no one but there is a dead body in the dicky (trunk) of your car.” The poor fellow was terrified.

Bapuji continued to drive all the way to Allahabad looking unsuccessfully for a secluded spot to get rid of the body. Turnng around and heading back towards Mirzapur a spot by a field with no observers was found. “We will stop here.” Bapuji and his unfortunate companion threw the bag over the edge of the road where there was somewhat of a drop to the field below. Two farm labourers resting, unseen from the road observed the drop and wrote the car license plate number in the mud.

Bapuji returned to his house and warned the car man again to keep silent. Shaking, the chap drove to the petrol station, washed the bloody boot, returned the car, (which actually belonged to his older brother), to the garage, locked the door and immediately packed his bag and left to visit his uncle in Shrinigar, Kashmir.

The observant farm workers reported the incident to the local police, but as the car was from another district it took several days for the man’s brother to receive a call from the police.

“Do you own this car?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last drive it?”
“I don’t drive it. I haven’t a driver’s license and at the moment I don’t employ a driver.”
“Who else drives your car?”
“My brother uses it but at the moment he is in Shrinigar.”

The police then told him about the murder.

The man phoned his younger brother and was told the whole story. The young man came back to Mirzapur and went to the police. The police went to Bapuji’s establishment and asked him about the murder. He said, yes, he had become angry, hit the man and he died but he hadn’t intended to kill him and he was sorry that he’d died. He offered the police one lakh (100,000 rupees) to not beat him but the police commenced to beat Bapuji as they paraded him through all the streets of Mirzapur to punish him in front of all the townspeople.

There was a trial but according to Anand Indian law insists on eyewitnesses in addition to a confession and the eyewitnesses professed not to recognize Bapuji in the court line-up due to their fear of reprisal. Bapuji also changed his story and said the confession was extracted due to the beating of the police and that he was an innocent man. The case was closed. Bapuji spent a total of six months in prison as did the man with the car.

I look out on the walls of the Mirzapur jail from the sunroom where I write. Bapuji did fine in prison. His wife brought him all his meals as she lives almost next door to the prison. With money in Indian jails you can have all the comforts of home.
The Gods were watching over Anand the night he was asked to lend his car. About Bapuji he says, “On the outside we say hello we smile and are friendly but on the inside I am alert and cautious. We must keep it that way. We are neighbours.”